Virgin Slave, Barbarian King. Louise Allen
and stood waiting. Of course, her hairy bodyguard would bring her back to its hairy master.
Julia grimaced and went over to Una. The other woman smiled. She was fair haired, taller than Julia and, it was apparent, despite her long tunic and swathing cloak, pregnant. ‘Hello. Are you Una? Do you speak Latin?’
‘Some. Better if I practise it.’ Una straightened and rubbed the small of her back, smiling. ‘You are Wulfric’s woman now?’
‘No! He thinks I am his slave.’ They stood looking at each other. Una was obviously working out what Julia’s position was. ‘I need hot water. And I need the latrine.’ And how was she going to mime that, if Una’s Latin was not up to it? Her faintly desperate air must have communicated her meaning. Una smiled and pointed to a square of wattle standing alone in the middle of a clear space.
Julia approached with caution, fearing the worst. The wattle, just the height of her head, had an opening with a baffle screen set inside it, a deep hole with a plank, a bucket of ash with a scoop and a box of large leaves. In the absence of running water, it was remarkably civilised, although how one indicated that it was occupied was a problem. There was nothing for it: Julia sang.
She emerged to find Una scooping hot water into a pair of buckets. She hooked chains on them and lifted a yoke for Julia to step under. ‘Enough?’
‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’ Julia took the weight and straightened up. It was not that it was too heavy, although she certainly had to concentrate to keep the buckets steady, it was the symbolism of the thing. She was under Wulfric’s yoke now. She had accepted the first task set her—was there any going back from that?
‘My name is Julia,’ she said abruptly. ‘Julia Livia.’ Una smiled and nodded and went back to making up the fire.
Julia walked slowly to the tent, stooped through the flap and set down the buckets without spilling a drop.
‘Over here.’ Wulfric’s voice was muffled. In the shadows at the back of the tent she could see that he had discarded helmet and sword belt and was pulling the chain-mail shirt over his head.
Doubtless he expected her to rush over and help him. Julia straightened up under the yoke, brought the buckets over and stood and waited while he untangled himself.
The chain mail rattled to the ground, pooling into a heavy mass. It had dragged his linen tunic with it, leaving him bare chested. Julia swallowed.
It was expected of Roman men of good family that they exercised, that they cultivated fitness. They were not bashful about showing off their bodies at the baths or in sport. And the city was littered with statues of naked men, in gleaming white marble or painted in lifelike colours.
But this man was bronze. A bronze god come to life. Every muscle stood out, defined, developed, powerful. His skin was golden and she had a sudden, powerful impulse to put out her hand and feel it, feel the heat, the texture, the pulse beating beneath it. He was more alive than any person she had ever seen and he terrified her.
She realised her mouth was open and snapped it shut.
‘Don’t you ever smile, Julia?’ He was watching her, apparently quite unconscious of the effect his half-naked body was having on her.
‘Yes. All the time—when I have something to smile about,’ she retorted. ‘I shall smile when I am rescued.’
Wulfric lifted his right hand and cupped her chin, his thumb gently pushing up the corner of her stubbornly straight mouth. ‘Smile for me now, Julia.’
Chapter Three
Julia bared her teeth at Wulfric. Will she bite? ‘Smile for me,’ he said again, intrigued to see what she would do. It was like having an exotic animal, half-tame, half-wild. He had been mad to take her, he knew that. She was so far from what he needed—neither the wife he should acquire, nor the domesticated slave who would make life comfortable—that he wondered at himself for the impulse.
But how could he delude himself that it was an impulse? He could have let her go at any time. Something about this dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-skinned creature called to him. It was going to be hell to teach her their ways, with her patrician arrogance and her stubborn defiance. He knew perfectly well that she had brought the water only because she wanted to use it herself.
‘I would sooner smile at your wolf.’ She jerked her chin, but he refused to let her go and she was too proud to continue struggling. There was fear at the back of those brown eyes, fear that he would force her to do more than carry water, despite his pledge, and that angered him.
These Romans had no concept of honour, no respect for a man’s word. Alaric, and all his people, had experienced it, year after weary year. They had fought for the emperor, learned his language, kept his enemies at bay, waiting for their reward while they were lied to and deceived. And now, what would they do? They had taken the greatest city on earth, they held the sister of the emperor, they could strip Rome of gold and slaves and treasures. But were they any closer to what they needed, their safe homeland?
Loyalty to his king told him to trust Alaric’s judgement. Experience and his own imagination told him to doubt the outcome. And yet to doubt his king was not honourable.
Frustrated, he released her. ‘That is your space, take some water.’ He jerked his chin towards a length of striped cloth that shielded one corner of the tent.
She stepped away from him, and he watched as she wiped her hand across her chin where he had held her, as though to rub away his contaminating touch. ‘This is a large tent,’ she observed, as if nothing had passed between them, hefting one of the buckets and making her way over to the corner. She was stronger than she looked.
‘We copied the design of the legionary tents, but bigger than the standard eight-man model. We have spent years living in them, now they are as close to a home as we can make them.’ He watched her poking about in her space, amused by the feminine instinct to build a nest in the most unpromising circumstances. ‘I will give you rugs for a bed and Berig will fill some sacks with straw for a mattress.’
‘Luxury indeed,’ she said drily, letting the curtain fall between them.
Wulfric whistled to Smoke and, when the wolf trotted in, nodded towards the corner. The animal padded behind the curtain and must have sat down. Wulfric could see its tail protruding underneath. Julia murmured something and the tail began to wag. Smoke liked her, it seemed.
Berig, it was obvious, did not. ‘Where is she?’ he demanded, marching in.
‘Washing.’ Wulfric jerked his head towards the curtain. ‘Here, take some of this and make yourself decent. You stink of horse and smoke.’
‘So do you.’ Berig began to ladle hot water into a bowl.
‘I’m washing, aren’t I?’ Wulfric aimed a cuff at the lad’s head, watching him critically as he ducked smoothly away. He was growing up fast, too fast yet for his lanky frame to catch up with. He had a quick tongue, fierce loyalty and worked magic with horses. He was also beginning to flirt with the girls of his own age.
Wulfric cast a thoughtful eye in the direction of Julia’s corner. There was splashing, but no other sound. Was he asking for trouble, introducing an attractive young woman into the tent with the youth? Probably not, not while they were squabbling like brother and sister, but it would bear watching. Berig deserved better than to fall into puppy love with a haughty Roman girl like this one.
He fished another soap ball out of the earthenware jar and went to hold it round the edge of the curtain. ‘Here.’
There was a pause, then wet fingers brushed against his hand as she took it. ‘Thank you.’
As though struck by an adder’s bite his body went rigid with desire. Wulfric shook his head, trying to clear it. Why that fleeting touch should affect him so, he had no idea. One moment he was worrying, with the corner of his mind that wasn’t thinking of Council tomorrow, about Berig’s adolescent fancies, the next he found himself